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When they've dumped me in that hole,
fingernails curling
in on themselves, will this piece of cloth warm me
or will it be the fires below?
Above me, there is a thing like a blanket, blue
and covering, but if examined closely, one sees the holes
where its threads have worn through. I could call this God,
or sky. Some say they are the same. But I,
eternally infantile in appearance, can not believe
in anything beyond the power of the thumb.
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